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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284045">Even your emotions have an echo in so much space</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation'>Multifandom_damnation</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Diego Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Diego Hargreeves is Bad at Feelings, Diego Hargreeves-centric, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, No Dialogue, Season/Series 02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:14:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Diego has always been one of the most tactile of his siblings, but under certain shameful situations with high emotional stress, that can sometimes change.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Diego Hargreeves &amp; Grace Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves &amp; Klaus Hargreeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Even your emotions have an echo in so much space</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm going to be honest, this is not my BEST fic, but it was inspired by this gifset posted on Tumblr: https://allison-chestnut.tumblr.com/post/625527361028423680/im-not-crying-youre-crying     so you guys can now cry about poor Diego and how he struggles to deal with his emotions and shuns the things he usually enjoys to seem tougher and to wallow in his own pain alone</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The feeling of the needle pushing into his flesh was one that he would carry with him for the rest of his miserable life, the sharp stinging, the cool metal warming with the heat of his skin, the ink flooding just beneath the surface. It made him sick to his stomach, the feeling so grotesque that it made his skin crawl. He had to shut his eyes tight so he couldn't see it. He didn't dare turn his head away- he knew better than that.</p>
<p>Somewhere, there was sobbing. It must have been Allison, considering Vanya was safely hidden away in her room, away from all the pain and the tears, and she was lucky that she didn't have to see it. He wasn't the first to sit in the chair, and he knew he wouldn't be the last. They had all lined up in an anxious row as father gave them their orders, and they watched with bated breath as the first in line sat stiffly in that seat, and the needle was placed against their flesh.</p>
<p>The tattooed man in the tank top hadn't really wanted to give them their tattoos. He had stood uncomfortably in the foyer as Sir Reginald explained with flippant expectations the job he had been called for. They had hoped, foolishly, that the man would turn his back and walk out, leaving the kids unscathed and safe for another day, but it might have been the sum of money Sir Reginald promised him for the job because no sooner had their hearts sung with happiness did he sit down on the stool provided and began setting up his equipment with record-breaking speed. </p>
<p>There was an unfamiliar but deeply rooted part of him that wanted to scream, to throw his head back and shout at the ceiling about the injustices of the world. Instead, he settled for wrapping his aching fingers firmly around the armrests and shutting his eyes tightly so he didn't have to see the needle and the ink, bouncing his foot against the tiles to expel some of the pent-up energy thrumming in his bones. His face was wet, but he ignored it. Maybe if he didn't draw any attention to the tears, his father wouldn't notice either, and it wouldn't be something he was punished for. The man with the tattoo gun certainly seemed sympathetic, and he pretended to take a break by fiddling with his equipment and refilling the dark ink. He was grateful for those few moments and took the time to regain his breathing. </p>
<p>Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm, warm and comforting and gentle, and he didn't even need to open his eyes to know who it was and yanked his arm out from under her. There was a sharp intake of breath, a distressed sound, and the retreating clicking of heels on the polished tiles as Grace returned to her original position with her arms folded in front of her and her eyes on the ground. Diego felt his resolve waver at the sound, but if he kept his eyes shut so tightly that it hurt, then maybe he could get through it without any mishaps.</p>
<p>Because really, the only thing Diego wanted right now was to leap into his mother's arms, be enveloped in her warm embrace, drown in her skirts, let her rake her fingers through his hair and press gentle kisses against his temple and tell him that everything was going to be alright.</p>
<p>But he couldn't have that and <em>shouldn't</em> want it either. He was stronger than that, and he didn't need his mummy to kiss his boo-boo's away. He wasn't weak. He was better than that. He was stronger than that. So he grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and waited for the pain to end.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It was 1963, and Diego was provided with a painful reminder why he hadn't seen Reginald in years, as his father's younger self looked at him with those familiar unfriendly eyes and that cruel smirk, and Diego found himself sinking slowly into a recognizable pit of deep despair. </p>
<p>He had spent 76 days in a mental asylum, being laughed at and locked away and drugged and forced to attend group meetings to talk about his non-existent issues, and he had spent all that time listening to these morons who knew nothing about what was to come, tell Diego that he had all these problems and issues and severe diagnoses that Diego merely scoffed at. They were wrong. He hated his dad, had always hated him and always will, so Diego didn't give two shakes of a rats all about trying to impress him. </p>
<p>But here he was, sinking and sinking, as Reginald sucked all the fight from his marrow and left him with nothing but his own sorrow and misery, despair seeping into his bloodstream and filling his eyes with tears. The same man Diego had celebrated the death of, was the man reducing him to a puddle of disappointment with nothing but his words.</p>
<p>And then, the icing on the cake, the cherry on top? When Diego summoned whatever fire he had left in his belly, when he stoked the embers of his anger to give a final counter to his worst nightmare sitting calmly before him, the words came out <em>wrong</em>, and his tongue couldn't handle them, and his angry retort came out as a stuttered whisper, weak and inadequate. Just like him.</p>
<p>He knew that eyes were on him now, could feel them boring holes into his skin, scalding and vigilant. He lowered his head to gain some composure, but it didn't really help. He felt too naked, too exposed too vulnerable here and now, and he found himself hunching forward, his shoulders up near his ears like an angry dog, his head down, his hair in his eyes, his hands cradled up near his chest. If he could curl up in a ball in a corner somewhere and rock back and forth he would, just to avoid the piercing stares of everyone around the table. But to his fortune, he was easily forgotten, and the conversation returned to the matter at hand.</p>
<p>He wanted to slam his head repeatedly against the table until darkness took him and he fell unconscious. He wanted to flee, to run and never look back. He knew with his heart of hearts, with his very soul, with every fibre of his being that he was and always would be that scared little boy, weak and vulnerable and afraid to live and that he would live his life in fear until it was abruptly ended when death came for him just as it came for every living thing. He felt an urge, an urge to howl at the moon, to roar at the storm, to scream at the ocean, to sob in the rain. But more than anything, he wanted a hug. He wanted his mother to wrap her arms around him and let him fall to his knees and sob with all he was worth into her shoulder, and tell him that he was worth it and that she loved him and that he was good enough. But Grace wasn't here, and all he had was his equally fucked up and emotionally stunted siblings, and he was sitting with his head bowed in a fucking tiki bar in 1963.</p>
<p>He was just holding back tears when he felt a feather-light touch on his arm, tentative and soft, caressing down the length of his tricep, and he jerked away before he could give it much thought. He knew who it would be though without even glancing up. Nobody other than Klaus would dare touch him, would dare try to offer him comfort, especially at a time like this. Only Klaus would put his own issues aside to show kindness to somebody who was hurting. But the hand never returned, and Diego vaguely wondered if he shouldn't have acted so rashly, but the very thought of being touched right now made his skin crawl. </p>
<p>Deep down, he knew that he was being foolish. There was more to life than the approval of a sociopathic maniac, and he would rather die than ask for anything from Reginald. But still, there was some unfathomable pain, a bottomless ache that he couldn't comprehend. Why the fuck did he care what this evil old man said to him? Why did it matter? Diego knew who he was, knew what he wanted to be, knew that even on his worst days, he would always be better than Reginald. So why did his words hurt so much, worse than one of Diego's knives? Why did he care so god damn <em>much</em>?</p>
<p>Part of him wanted to pull Klaus into the corner and ask him for a hug, knowing without a doubt that Klaus would happily and eagerly oblige. The other part of him cringed at the idea, and just wanted him to man up and pull his head out of his ass for one fucking second and stop thinking about himself. Diego was bigger than this, he knew. He wasn't afraid of Reginald anymore. He just needed to show it, and stop cowering in the corner like a beaten dog. Reginald had been out of Diego's life for a very long time. Many things had changed since then, and that obedient little kid who was desperate for approval and afraid of their father had been dead for many years. </p>
<p>He was done being weak. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>UGH this is so bad but I'm sure someone out there will enjoy it</p></blockquote></div></div>
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